Bal Masque

by Fleeta Cunningham

  The door to his study opened. “M’sieu, I didn’t realize you’d returned,” Marie apologized as she entered.

  “Just this moment.” He might as well get the daily report over with. “I’m afraid I’ve not heard anything of Lucienne from any quarter. I’ll speak to some of my acquaintances near the dock and the marketplace tomorrow.”

  Her shoulders drooped a little at his words, but Marie gave him a consoling smile. “Eh, I’d hoped that the little messenger boy brought you some news. I suppose it was only something about your business concerns, after all. Still it was something to keep my hopes alive for the day.”

  Armand stood abruptly as her comment penetrated the weariness in his head. “A messenger came? Who? Where did he go?”

  “You didn’t see him, m’sieu? A small boy near the railing? He said he’d wait. He wouldn’t give the message to anyone but you, only to you in person. Very private, he said.”

  “Quick! Is he still there?” Armand and Marie all but collided racing each other to the door. There, near the steps, the white figure in the shade of new leaves sat curled into a ball, napping as comfortably as if he were in his own cot. Armand shook him, not as gently as he might under other conditions.

  “You have a message, garçon? A private message?”

  The boy scrubbed at his eyes and scrambled to his feet. “You Mist’ Armand Dupre?” he asked, sleep still making his tongue a bit thick.

  “Yes, yes, I’m Armand Dupre.” He waited as the boy righted himself and stood as tall as his small frame permitted.

  “I was sent from the ladies, the old ones in the long black dresses, the ones what live all together out on Dauphine— You knows the ones I mean? They looks like bird ladies, sorta, with white things on they haids?”

  “The nuns? The Catholic sisters?” Armand demanded. “Are those the ladies you mean?”

  The boy nodded. “Those the ones. The head lady, the one they call Mother, she say go to the Dupre house on Dumaine Street, ask for Mist’ Armand, and don’t tell nobody but him.”

  Armand reined in his impatience. “Yes, you found the right house, and I’m Armand Dupre. What is it you’re to tell me?”

  The boy glanced at Marie. “It’s privut and I’s not to tell nobody but you.”

  “You can speak in front of Marie, mon fils; it’s all right to tell her.”

  “Iffen you says so.” The boy shrugged. “The Mother lady, she say tell you that you can call fo’ you wife at the ladies’ place. She been there all week, and the Mother lady thinks she ready to come home.”

  ****

  Lucienne paced the floor of her small room. She’d been turning over one plan after another and discarding each in disgust. Nothing appealed to her or seemed reasonable. Even if she sold the gold ring now on her left hand, she wouldn’t have funds for ship passage to the islands where her father still had family. The idea lured her, but it wasn’t practical. She supposed she could find a way to follow Philippe to Texas, but he didn’t want her, and she couldn’t bring herself to beg. How would she ever find him if she did follow him? She was weary of stewing and fussing only to find gaping holes in every scheme. At least she had a couple of days to work things out. If the family sent someone for her, and she was certain it would be Armand, he’d have a slow trip into town. That gave her, let’s see, at least another forty-eight hours. He couldn’t come faster than that. She could plan anything with that much time. She stopped, struck by another thought. He could come faster if he were right here in town.

  Dumbfounded that she could have overlooked something so obvious, Lucienne bit down, grinding her teeth at her blind assumption. Of course, he would have come to town to look for her once her absence was discovered. He had his carriage at hand, the road had been dry then, and he could make good time. Armand might have been in town almost as long as she had. And if Mother Superior thought of it, it wasn’t a very long walk to the Dupre house. Armand could locate his errant wife in an afternoon, less if Mother Superior chose to make it so. Lucienne tried to think how long she’d been in her room. Hours, perhaps? Yes, she was sure it had been at least two hours. Armand might be on his way this minute. She wouldn’t—mustn’t—be here if he came. She had no time to think out a course of action.

  Lucienne took off her apron and pulled the grey sacklike garment from the peg on the wall where it was still drying. She tossed it into the center of the apron, tying up the corners to make an awkward pack. What else, she muttered, glancing over the room. Nothing here she could use, she decided, and slipped into the hallway. She hesitated, listening intently. No one coming either way. A moment of caution stopped her. The last time she’d run away from a meeting with Armand, she’d wound up penniless, with nothing to wear and no food for hours and hours. She’d be more prudent this time. She still had no money and little in the way of clothing, but she could make sure she didn’t go hungry while she found her way again. Lucienne worked her way to Sister Mary Agnes’s kitchen. It must be mid-afternoon, the hour when the kitchen sister went to the herb garden for fresh supplies. No one was stirring pots or making up mounds of bread. It only took Lucienne a moment to dash in, collect two loaves of her own carefully made bread, and wrap them in a clean cloth. At least she’d enjoy some of the fruit of her hard-won expertise.

  Lucienne scurried through the grounds to the gate between the walls. She glanced left and right, saw no one who noticed her, and hurried into the street. With no better plan at hand, she decided she could find refuge at Grandmère’s house, for the night if not longer. Regardless of the consequences, at least she was away from the convent and was sure Armand couldn’t trace her now, no matter how quickly he came.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Old Acquaintances, New Encounters

  The walk was warm and dusty, made longer by the circuitous route Lucienne chose. She feared someone might note her passing if she took the most direct road back into town. A dozen ideas had run though her brain as she slipped away from the convent walls. She could think of only one place where she would be free to think through her situation, a place where she would find sanctuary till she could make sense of her life. Facing her situation squarely, Lucienne decided at this point Grandmère’s house was the only place to go. Her other option was to wait at the convent for Armand and return with him, something she’d vowed never to do. Still, Grandmère’s house shouldn’t be this far, no matter how indirectly she’d come, and the neighborhood looked unfamiliar, the houses poorly kept. She ducked into a byway that seemed as if it might turn toward the river, chose a turn that didn’t, and found herself back at the cross street she’d left half an hour earlier. Lost, that’s what she was, she admitted at last. She’d taken too many narrow side streets, followed too many misleading landmarks, and had no idea which way to go next. The cathedral. If she could get to the cathedral, she knew she could find the Thierry residence. Lucienne raised her eyes and scanned for the familiar bell tower against the cloudy sky. She turned in a slow circle. Sacre bleu, she’d been walking directly away from her destination. The tower barely showed above the canopy of budding trees. How had she become so turned around? Setting herself for yet a longer walk, Lucienne resolutely retraced her way, keeping the outline of the tower in her line of sight as she plodded on.

  Grandmère surely would be home by now. The thought served as a talisman to keep her moving as the sun dropped lower in the sky. If Grandmère was there, and oh, please let her be back, she would help Lucienne decide how to proceed. Nothing daunted Grandmère, certainly not any foolish escapade her beloved granddaughter might attempt.

  Lucienne kept her spirits up with such promises to herself, and imagined her grandmother laughing like a schoolgirl over the plight facing the family. Grandmère had no great regard for society’s opinions. Likely a botched elopement wouldn’t disturb her any more than that discussion of kissing had. A flash of memory caught Lucienne off guard. That brief kiss, Armand’s lips brushing hers—remembering it made breathing nearly impossible. Grandmè
re hadn’t disapproved. No, she’d seemed more amused than anything else, as if she rather liked the idea that Armand wanted to take such a liberty. Lucienne remembered her grandmother dancing with Armand at the little masquerade and flirting with him as if she were sixteen again. She’d said she liked the man her granddaughter had promised to marry, even given Papa some rare words of approval. Would she turn her back on Lucienne because she’d created a scandal? No, Grandmère might enjoy his attentions, might find him handsome and pleasant, but she’d never choose Armand over the granddaughter she adored. Lucienne felt certain of that if nothing else.

  At last, through the masses of tree branches and the darkening shadows of late afternoon, Lucienne found herself in a neighborhood she remembered. The rooflines were elegant, the gardens elaborate, the stucco walls bright with color, and the streets recognizable. She was only blocks away from her destination, only steps from the security of a welcome rest. In a few minutes she’d see friendly faces, a meal she’d had no hand in serving, and a decent bed made up with fine linens and downy pillows.

  Admiring her grandmother’s house as if she’d never really seen it before, Lucienne paused a second to catch her breath. The pale green house shed an inviting air over the oleander-filled courtyard. Ornamental trees had just begun to bloom, and their tiny white buds gave a spattered effect to the palette of greens within the stone walls. Tracery of latticework filled the long windows suggesting half-closed eyes flirting behind teasing fans. Lucienne hurried again to reach the end of the street, anxious to wrap herself in familiar circumstances.

  Buoyed by the sight of the beloved home and the comforts she knew to be waiting, Lucienne approached the open gates with easier steps. Her bundles swayed in concert with her lightened mood. Her adventure was almost over and, in spite of what tomorrow might hold, she felt more relief than remorse at facing her journey’s consequences. Coming from the opposite direction was a woman also walking briskly toward the gates of the silent green house. The woman looked familiar. No, not exactly familiar, but she reminded Lucienne of someone. The sweep of the gown, the dip of plumes over a bonnet that shielded the face—they stirred a memory Lucienne couldn’t quite grasp. A neighbor, someone she’d met at Grandmère’s during a visit? Lucienne tried to pull the memory back, then dismissed it as she came to the wall guarding the perimeter of the Thierry home.

  Drawing in the dampness of the dusky courtyard, Lucienne started along the stone path. Soft steps brushed the walkway behind her. Lucienne turned, expecting to see a servant, one of Grandmère’s maids, perhaps, but froze to the spot. It was as if she were facing herself. Surely that blue-and-white gown was her own, the blue plumed bonnet one she’d seen in her vanity mirror? The dusk and her confusion toyed with her comprehension. She reached out to touch the phantom in the faint light.

  “Who are you?” she managed to gasp. The figure seemed about to answer. Lucienne stepped toward the outstretched hand. Vaguely she felt a movement in the bushes behind her. She started to turn. Rough hands caught her elbows, forcing her arms to her sides. She squirmed to free herself, lashing out with her fingernails, twisting against the confining grip, but found no release. Sinking her teeth into the hard hand clapped over her mouth, Lucienne kicked out at her captor. Finding nothing but air, she bit down harder. The hand jerked back, leaving Lucienne’s mouth bruised but free. The scream that rose up in her throat got no further. A rag, dry and coarse in her mouth, stopped all sound.

  “Now, Miss Lucy Ann, you ain’t hurt and not gonna be, but you best try to hold still and not flap around. Just be a mite patient with all this.”

  ****

  “I’m afraid Lucienne managed to leave the convent grounds before you arrived,” Mother Superior apologized. She put out a hand to invite the pacing man to sit, but Armand ignored the suggestion. “I did try to suggest that it would be two days at least before you could make the journey from Mille Fleur, so that she would not be tempted to run away again. Apparently I failed to be sufficiently convincing.”

  “No, madame, I am sure you were quite convincing,” Armand answered. “Lucienne was simply taking no chances that your information might be wrong. Once more she has taken herself out into the world with no notion of what danger she courts.” He stopped pacing for a moment. “If I had only come home an hour earlier, or if your messenger had looked for me beyond the door of my house, maybe I could have been here in time to stop her. Now I must begin anew and hope no harm comes to her before I succeed.”

  “The child had some notion of joining our order. She said she wanted to get away from any life that was managed by others. It’s possible she still has such notions. Is that any help to you?”

  Armand shook his head. “Not at the moment, but it may suggest something to me once I have time to examine the thought. She truly believed there would be no one arranging her life within these walls?”

  “The child has a remarkable talent for seeing only what she chooses. I have no idea what flights of fancy she may be entertaining, what direction her departure may take her. That information would make locating her a little easier, I suppose, but it didn’t occur to me to pursue it.”

  Armand gave a sharp laugh. “Very likely she wouldn’t have told you if you had. I only hope I can find her and keep her safe until she develops a modicum of caution to balance her boundless courage and wit. Life with her will certainly never be boring, likely not even predictable.”

  The nun smothered a small laugh of her own. “M’sieu, I had the girl in my classes for four years. I can honestly say I do not envy you the task you set for yourself. But I am most relieved Lucienne is married to a man such as yourself, who will accept and even take pride in her unique qualities. I wish you the very best in your search. Know that both of you will be in my prayers.”

  Armand stood for many minutes looking out the gates of the convent and into the twilight draining color from the street. He’d been so close, within an hour, perhaps, of bringing this nightmare to an end. “Lucienne, you’re so obstinate, you fight so fiercely. Why can’t you see that your real freedom lies here with me?” No answer came. Armand shook off a sense of apprehension that threatened to engulf him as he waved for the carriage waiting at the end of the lane.

  ****

  Though Lucienne clawed and scratched at her captors, she found her arms bound to her waist and her hands quickly tied in front of her. Two men of awkward strength, reeking of fish and sweat, hustled her around the back wall of the estate toward a farm cart. Lucienne now recognized Dorcas, in the blue-and-white gown, walking ahead, watching for inconvenient witnesses to the abduction. Struggle as she might, Lucienne found she was all but immobile between the oafs restraining her. Dorcas removed the foul rag from Lucienne’s mouth. Before she could cry out, a kerchief replaced it, tied so tightly she could only squeak a protest. The men dumped her unceremoniously into the back of the cart and tossed her bundles in beside her. One leaped into the wagon and passed a heavy cord around Lucienne’s ankles, while the other helped Dorcas clamber onto the driver’s bench. The high sides of the rude conveyance kept Lucienne from seeing the direction they took, but they traveled long enough that it was dark by the time the wheels stopped rolling.

  “We’ll be stoppin’ here for a bit, Miss Lucy Ann,” Dorcas announced. “Orman, you carry her into the shed while Mort puts the horse up. Mind you’re careful with her, or Pa will have your head.”

  The lumbering hulk lifted Lucienne as if she were no more than a five-pound bag of meal and carried her into a rough shack beside a dilapidated lean-to. He dropped her onto a slightly moldy pile of hay and lit a tiny lantern. Lucienne kicked out at him awkwardly with her bound feet, but he jumped away before she struck the kneecap she aimed for. He casually slapped at her ankle with a hand as big as a ham, sending a lightning bolt of pain up her leg. Dorcas, her arms filled with Lucienne’s knotted bundles, ducked under the low doorway in time to see Lucienne jerk away from the blow.

  “Orman! No, you let her alone!”


  “She kicked me.”

  “She missed. Even if she’d jumped up and down on you with both feet, she couldn’t hurt a lummox like you.” Dorcas dropped her burden, bent down, and eased Lucienne into the damp nest of hay. “There you go, miss. You just sit tight for half a minute, and I’ll get you sorted out. I can’t untie you, but I’ll make you as snug as I can.” She reached into a wooden box beside the loose hay and pulled out a fairly clean length of sacking that she spread over Lucienne. “Now, that’ll keep the night damp off you. If you promise not to yell your head off, I can take that thing off your mouth.” She paused. “Not that all the hollerin’ in the world would bring anybody, but the boys would get riled and tell Pa. We don’t want that. Promise to be quiet?”

  Lucienne glared back at the mild blue eyes opposite but nodded miserably. The gag in her mouth was making her ill. As she wondered how she could ever have looked on that face as the countenance of a friend, Dorcas loosened the kerchief over her captive’s mouth.

  “Bet you’re wonderin’ what on earth is happenin’ to you, ain’t you, Miss Lucy Ann?” Dorcas leaned back against the rough wall. “Orman, you go on out and keep watch with your brother. Pa ought to be along any time now, and we’ll need to git down to the boat as soon as the moon is up good. Git on out of here now, and leave me and Miss Lucy Ann to ourselves. We owe her some explanation, I reckon. She’ll likely go along easier if she knows what’s what.”

  Pushing aside the knotted apron that held Lucienne’s spare clothes, Dorcas made herself comfortable on the rude bed of hay. “I was just about give up on you comin’ back to your grandma’s place. In a way it might have been best if you’d stayed wherever you was. In another day or two maybe Pa might win enough to pay our passage, and we’ll be gone. Or more likely he’ll come up with some other scheme to get us away from here.” Idly she pulled back the worn towel that covered Lucienne’s two loaves of bread. “There’s a treat.” Dorcas broke off a crusty chunk and bit into it with relish. “Oh, fresh bread! Nothin’s better.” She tore off another piece and devoured it as if she’d not eaten in days. Ripping one piece after another from the whole, the girl proceeded to consume the small loaf and then lick the tiny crumbs from her fingertips.